Between You and Me
by Ankaris123
Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.
1. Part 1

Title: Between You and Me

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.

Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya.

**[Edit:** **Important Note:** _I would like to clarify that instances of the term North America specifically refers to Canada and the United States as one entity (in a way, Anglo-America although that's not entirely correct). I've appended this note onto the first chapter_**.]**

**Important Note:** Please note that the quotes may be inaccurate, not necessarily used in their correct historical dates, be reinterpreted for the sake of the story in a way that its original meaning is skewered to taste or even discarded completely, and were chosen for their relevance value to the story and at times not to their actual relevance to reality. This story focuses more on the conflicts than anything else and is most likely biased since I'm a Canadian. History made be inaccurate, writer is not a history buff.

_A/Ns_: So I got this little idea and decided to do some research for inspiration. Somehow it lead to quotes on US-Canada relations (as it always does) and it turned into this anger child. I really hate myself for writing depressing stories all the time. It's become my specialty or something. This story became too long for my tastes (and isn't finished yet) so I decided to make it a one-shot in instalments. Anyhow, without further ago, read on.

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_America has no north, no south, no east, no west. The sun rises over the hills and sets over the mountains, the compass just points up and down, and we can laugh now at the absurd notion of there being a north and a south. We are one and undivided. – _Sam Watkins

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The orange-red sky of early evening was shrouded in gray, precipitous clouds, beating the wild lands below with rainfall. A crack of air splitting in the night and a flash of natural light, two children emerged from their respective hiding places and met for the first time.

They observed each other curiously, keeping cautious distance. Both blond, untamed, and young. One raised a hand, the other did the same. Their movements mirrored by the other in impossibly perfect synchronization.

A second bolt of lightning, they jumped, startled by the sound and light, into each other's reaching arms.

They looked to each other, forgetting the rain drenching their white linen clothes; blue to violet, violet to blue.

And smiled.

"Why is there another me?" they said in unison. Small hands explored each other's features in childish interest.

A rustle came from above and a small woodland creature fell before them having stumbled on the slippery wood. It stared back at the twin set of inquisitive eyes and leapt into a bush.

Exchanging a grin, thoughts exchanged without words, they followed in hot pursuit.

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_All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident._ – Arthur Schopenhauer

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The one with the violet eyes slipped through the foliage with ease. With both arms, he carried a small white bear which continued to slumber despite the movement. He smiled, hurrying to share his discovery of the strange creature with his other self.

"I will be so pleased," he said to himself.

Near the coastline, he saw the other him beyond a tall meadow. His large eyes grew larger at the sight of the tall foreigners and shrunk back into the tree's welcome shade. Peering around the smooth bark, he observed their interaction. One of them looked familiar but only just so. He watched the two bribe his other self and felt an anger brew in the pit of his stomach.

He wanted them to leave. He did not like the eyes they were making at his other self. He waited for his other self to drive them off their soil.

He watched his other self smile.

He was confused and then thought, surely he was just pretending, just being nice. A joke, the other him liked those very much.

He watched as an unfamiliar look of absolute delight appeared on his other self's face. He watched the shorter of the two embrace him.

"What am I doing?" he whispered in disbelief, leaning forward through the branches. He must have made a noise because his other self turned and began to sprint towards him.

He scuttled back in what he realized was fear.

Fear? Why was he afraid of himself?

The other him burst into the tiny clearing; the elated smile so beautiful yet so frightening. Before the other him could speak, he blurted out,

"Who are those people? What do they want?"

"They are France and England. Well, they said it was okay if I call them Francis and Arthur. And they gave me a name too! They say I am 'Alfred' of America. Come on, you got to meet them." He reached out to take his hand only to have it wrenched out of his grasp.

Angry violet eyes glared into shocked blue ones.

"No! I don't want to be Alfred!" he shouted. He didn't want to be anything they gave him. They should just leave like the foreigner that landed on their northern shores in the past. He wanted them to leave. To leave him and his other self alone.

His other self gave him a crossed look and crossed his arms.

"No, see, _I_ am Alfred. Not you."

You.

He started to hyperventilate, clutching at his chest as it became harder and harder to breathe. His vision swam in before him as a chill settled into his small body.

The other him never used that word when talking to him before.

"Are you okay?" his other self reached forward concerned.

His tiny form shuddered at the utterance of the word.

"Stop it!"

"Stop what?" his other self looked scared as well. This reassured him a little. It meant they were still connected, still one. "Really, you don't look so good."

"Stop saying that word!" He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his trembling hands against his ears, shaking his head madly as though it would dislodge the sound of the pronoun.

"What word? You're acting weird, you stop it!"

"Shut up! _Shut up_!" Why couldn't his other self understand?

He couldn't take it anymore. Ignoring the distressed cries for him to come back, he scooped up the bear cub and plunged into the wildness.

He ran and ran and ran. He ran until he couldn't breathe without choking, until his little legs ached from the exertion. He crawled with his forearms until he reached the lakeside, until his sleeves were shredded in his effort. He drank his fill until his parched throat was soothed, until he coughed it back out.

Rubbing his eyes, he bit back hiccups and wondered why his other self was creating this divide. They were one and always will be. That was their truth, the one and only truth they needed.

The lake stilled and the world around him appeared on the undisturbed surface, mirrored flawlessly.

He looked down at his reflection and bit back a sob at the violet eyes that stared back.

Violet. Not blue.

The white bear eventually crept to his side, having been abandoned a short ways back, dunking its furry head into the cold water for a drink. Ripples spread across the water, distorting the image.

When it pulled back, shaking his head dry, it looked at him with shiny black eyes and said,

"Who?"

Tears spilled forth, burning his cheeks.

"I..._he_ is right."

The bear cocked its head puzzled and directed its attention to the school of fish faintly visible in the lake.

"I really am a 'you'."

He cried until he was drained to the bottom of his soul, until his heart split into two.

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_A/Ns_: Blargh, this made me so depressed. Technically the next section is done but I might have to rearrange later sections so they make more chronological sense. I'll put it up in a day or two if you like. Should I scrap this distraction and go work on my neglected stories? You decide.

**Thanks for reading**


	2. Part 2

Title: Between You and Me

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.

Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya.

_A/Ns_: So the full story is almost complete, just two more sections to finish. There will be approximately 4 or 5 instalments in total (so two or so more after this one). Good news is that if I finish it by the end of today, you'll get daily updates. Bad news is if I don't, it'll take who knows how much longer than that. To avoid spoilers, the full author's notes will be at the end of the chapter along with historical notes. Enjoy!

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_Revenge proves its own executioner._ – John Ford

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If the North was famous for one thing, it was its harsh unforgiving winters. Even on the North American continent, General Winter did not shirk his handiwork. In fact, it seemed he paid extra attention this time around, pulling no stops and lavishing the land with natural destruction.

He was a small figure amidst the blinding flurry. Flakes of ice pelted down, soaking into his inadequate protection against the elements when it melted. Once in a while, he shook his head to dislodge the pile of snow growing there by the second. He did not spend much here in the winter season, usually migrating south to join his other self and even outside of those times, they were never far apart.

The memories of those blissful winters provoked a twinge of pain in his chest. The ache amplified in intensity with each step north despite the numbness in his frozen limbs. The small polar bear cub was his only companion but a faithful one, rubbing up close to his shivering form and sharing his tiny warmth.

He looked around him, wondering where he intended to go, for what purpose did he wander this white wonderland so aimlessly.

And then, an answer appeared out of the storm.

A golden beacon of infinitesimal size disrupted the world of whites, blues, and grays. Curious, he approached it to find it was a thatch of blond hair. With some effort, the little boy and the cub uncovered the unconscious figure buried in the snow. He was the taller man of the two he had seen before.

He bit his lip, asking the bear with wide violet eyes what he should do. It grunted in uncertainty.

They sat together thinking about their next move until the man was nearly freshly buried. Resolute, he grabbed the man by one arm and started to drag him through the snowy plains, sparing only a moment to gaze back south and the way he came.

When the man woke up in the cabin, the first thing he asked half-delirious was,

"Alfred?"

Sitting on the cotton sheets of the narrow bed, the boy was tempted to nod and say yes, that he was Alfred. That he and his other self were one and the same.

Instead he shook his little head bereft. Tears prickled his eyes but he held them back. When the man fell asleep again, he roused the explorers in the camp to tell them the news so he could continue on his journey wherever it may lead him.

Yet several days later when the weather eased and the man recovered in full, he was still there, eating their strange broths and collecting wood for their fires.

The man began to teach him his language which he took to almost hungrily. It did not take long for his fluency to reach a decent level and on long nights, shut in by winter, they conversed about their lives.

Once in a while, the man, Francis, would ask about him and his other self and he, Matthieu as he was now addressed, would be careful to use the plural form 'nous' instead of the singular 'je'.

Every time he learned a new word and its inflected forms, he admired the spelling differences between one and more. With each addition to his French vocabulary, he felt himself slip farther away from his English other self, two paths diverging with a growing distance between.

He comforted himself in that his other self had pushed him away first and that this was divine punishment should the other him feel the same hurt from their gradual splitting.

_Am I-...are _you_ hurting? Because _you_ should. _You_ should feel the consequences of what _you_ started._

Somehow, Matthew couldn't help but think that retribution wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

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_America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves._ – Abraham Lincoln

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"Come, Canada. Leave that British bastard behind and join us. I know you want to." A calloused hand was thrust out as an offering. A mere touch would sign their agreement to unite.

Matthew Williams, Upper and Lower Canada, stared at the dried bloodstains caked on the rough skin in muted indecision. In the distance, gunshots and screams mingled in the smoking winter air.

To whom did the blood belong? A fellow American? A British Soldier? A Canadian citizen?

It didn't matter either way. He raised his weary eyes to meet America's steady, determined gaze. He felt his heart clench at the encouraging smile, a part of him urging him to say yes.

Gripping the rifle he liberated from a fallen soldier of unknown loyalties, the blond boy shook his head slowly but surely.

"No."

"Why?! Why do you keep siding with him? What has he done for you? Don't you want to stop being British North America and become just North America again?" _Just like the old times?_

Disappointment transitioned into rage as the soon-to-be United States of America raised his own weapon, pulling back the hammer which clicked into place, ready to be fired.

Closing his eyes, Matthew shook his head again. When their gaze met again, Alfred was affronted by a deep sorrow he did not know nor understand.

Hesitantly, he raised the loaded rifle until it pointed at his brother nation's chest. The long barrel was just an inch shy of touching him. He swallowed hard and held it steady.

"I'll ask you one more time. Will you or will you not join us?" _Say, yes. Dear God, please, just say yes._

Instead of replying, Canada grabbed the rifle barrel, almost startling America into pulling the trigger. He was weak from all the fighting; he could not win in a physical battle. They both knew this.

Then, without a word, he guided the weapon upwards until it was level with his forehead. The unwavering despair in those purple eyes instilled alarm within him.

_Don't tell me to shoot you. Don't do it._

"Speak!" he yelled one last time barely able to keep from stuttering as conflicting emotions built up in his chest. This was wrong, this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

_I know I pushed you away first. I didn't know at the time that I had made a mistake. But I'm pulling back now, I've lived and I've learned. We can still make up for it. We can still make our world right again._

But even he knew it wasn't that easy to return to how they used to be. Nothing could emphasis the division that grew between them over the years than the image they presented now. One taller, the other a mere youth, the different colours of their tattered uniforms, the look of victory and desperation, of loss and determination, one with a finger on the trigger, the other its target.

The stolen rifle slipped out of Canada's hand, clattering onto the soot-stained cobblestones as he gave his reply,

"It's too late."

At that moment, something small and white drifted down from the heavens, landing on the weapon held precariously between them.

It was snowing.

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_These Yankee politicians are the lowest race of thieves in existence._ – John Sparrow Thompson

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"I can't believe this."

Canada shook his head at America sitting opposite but more specifically at the nation seated next to him. Seemingly oblivious to the statement, England gave his tea another stir, the small silver spoon clinking against the porcelain.

"We've discussed this long enough, Canada. Sign the papers and we can end this dispute once and for all," the Briton said nonchalantly. Centuries of diplomacy allowed him to easily ignore the seething hatred directed at him. He took a sip of the hot liquid and crossed his legs.

"Why are you siding with him on this? This isn't fair," the Northern nation said through clenched teeth and white-knuckled fists. He looked to America who stared stony-faced at the table, hands clasped together.

_Are you just going to sit here and let him win this for you? Or is it material wealth all that matters here, America? Where is your pride? Since when have you taken the easy way out?_

_Why are you allowing someone else to settle our issues?_

It was difficult to think straight, searing betrayal boiled within him as he looked from his neighbour nation to his part-time caretaker.

_Stop treating me like a child!_

"This isn't about being fair, my boy, accept it as a nation. If you continue to persist with this show of immaturity, don't expect full autonomy in the future."

The North American dominion bit down on his tongue lest some vicious thought made itself known to the others. It didn't matter if the Empire still held control over his foreign policies. This was a personal matter concerning Canadian soil. He had been counting on England to back him up. He should have known this trust was all for naught.

"Fine," he said after a pause, picking up the fountain pen sitting on a stand in the middle. "Fine, I'll sign it."

With morbid satisfaction, he scrawled his signature on the papers in vicious, harsh strokes. The dark ink bled into the smooth paper, spreading out to form miniscule spider webs of black and blue. He allowed the expensive writing utensil to drop with a clack onto the polished wooden surface in a small but significant show of his displeasure and disgust at the current proceedings.

_I have lost, but I will not admit that this is your victory._

Rising from his seat, he did not bid either of them farewell as he strode out of the conference room, resisting the impulse to burn the union jack flying outside the parliament building.

"The lad will get over it. He might not look it at the moment, but he can be very forgiving. What say you and I go and discuss further trade options between our countries? We understand that America is an important part of the global economy after all..."

As Christmas approached, a picket fence was erected separating Alaska and Canada in the Northwest corner of the continent; yet another boundary pushing the two nations further apart.

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_A/Ns_: The more research I do, the more I ache, ache, _ache_ inside. Fanfiction is not healthy for me. Everything just gets worse and worse from here on out and it really hurt to write it. The next instalment's first quote really got me going but you'll have to wait for that one, eh?

Section 1: This, of course, refers to the meeting of Canada and France. Historically speaking, France came to Canada first and New France stretched from present day Eastern Canada down to through present day United States all the way to Louisiana (which still retains some of its French culture). It was after the Treaty of Utrecht that it was withdrawn back to the North though most of it was forfeited over to Great Britain.

Section 2: The infamous war of 1812, specific setting, ambiguous for the sake of the fic. I believe no further explanation is needed.

Section 3: This refers to the Alaska Boundary Dispute which continued for many decades between Russia and Great Britain until the U.S. purchased Alaska. During the Yukon Gold Rush, Americans came in droves up the West causing for boundary issues between them and the Canadians of British Columbia. The issue was finally resolved in 1903, back when Canada became a dominion with its legislature and foreign policies controlled by the British Empire. After many stalemates, to great controversy, the Lord Chief Justice of England sided with the United States' claim although in the end the boundaries were set quite beneficially for the Canadians. At the time, it sparked violent anti-British sentiments and the Canadian judges refused to sign in protest.

The next part is...rather heartbreaking in my opinion. Please look forward to it!

**Thanks for reading.**


	3. Part 3

Title: Between You and Me

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.

_A/Ns_: I finished the fic in the school library (but will require revision, etc.). Remind me never to do that again. I make really weird repressing-sad-face expressions when I do it. People stared. I also can't describe how much I like the first quote. Enjoy.

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_As always, Canada will now bury its war dead, just as the rest of the world, as always, will forget its sacrifice, just as it always forgets nearly everything Canada ever does. It seems that Canada's historic mission is to come to the selfless aid of both its friends and complete strangers, and then, once the crisis is over, to be well and truly ignored. Canada is the perpetual wallflower that stands on the edge of the hall, waiting for someone to come and ask her for a dance._ – Kevin Myers

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A stiff silence met with his words. The nations seated along the table stared up blankly at him. Canada fought the impulse to fidget under their scrutiny, behind him he felt his fellow British Dominions grow anxious.

At the centre of the table crowding around the treaty papers, the five Allied Powers and Germany looked up at last. England's judging look was the most piercing but the others were merely puzzled although a brief flicker of recognition appeared in Germany's weary blue eyes.

There was a question hanging in the air that he knew all too well.

_Who?_

Struggling for his voice, he nearly jumped as a comforting hand rested on his shoulder. He didn't know if it was Australia's or New Zealand's, or South Africa's or India's but it eased the burden of responsibility just a little.

"We want separate signatures on the treaty," he repeated quickly, knowing, or rather, sensing the Briton's disapproval grow.

Still, he stared back at the powerful nations abnormally brazen for his meagre political significance and background personality. He looked from face to face of those in the hall, almost daring them to reject their proposal.

He and the other nations under British control were no less scarred, no less damaged from the war. They sacrificed a great deal and deserved this right. Remembering the harsh terrors of the battlefield, the people who gave their lives for this moment, strengthened his will to argue with anyone who contested with them.

He rose to full height which was not very much, having a body of a growing teenager. They can do this; they fought to be able to send their own delegation to this conference. They can achieve this as well.

A single voice cleared its throat. Canada bristled at the response coming from his southern neighbour.

"But if they all signed, wouldn't that give the British Empire more votes on the proposed League of Nations? He could influence their decisions if they are allowed on the council. Seems like an unfair advantage to me," America said, slowly as though uncertain whether he should say it or not. Canada relished in the fact that his brother nation appeared to wince from the glare he now directed at him, but the words were taking their effect. A murmur rose amongst the delegates, growing louder and louder.

Finally, England put his foot down to all this nonsense and declared that the dominions will sign for Great Britain as an indent under his own signature. The compromise sat reasonably well with everyone. Privately, Canada was seething inside from America's objection however he kept his temper in check and accepted England's suggestion. It was even that he rejected their proposal, but that he did it so readily as though directly opposing him.

Later, after many more meetings and the treaty was finalized, Canada could be found lingering in the Hall of Mirrors as the palace servants bustled around tidying the place up, ignoring him completely. He sat in the designated seat he used when the treaty of Versailles was passed around for the signing, eyes closed, recalling the recent memory with extraordinary vividness.

The feel of the pen in his hand, the scritch-scratch of the nib on the paper, the smell of drying ink...

He stayed for a long time, cherishing that moment and the feelings that came with it, oblivious to the forlorn figure behind just outside the hall, watching him in anguish through the glass window.

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_It's time for us to recognize that we have separate identities; that we have significant differences; and that nobody's interests are furthered when these realities are obscured._ - Richard Nixon

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There was thud as Canada's shoulder hit the parlour's wall, held firmly against it by a flustered America.

"Why," the superpower rasped, tears pushing against the back of his eyes. Having rushed over immediately after hearing the news, he wasted no time removing his muddy boots when he hurried into the Canadian's household. The door was still open, letting in a chilling breeze.

"This is my decision. My country's decision, I am entitled to my own opinion, you know. If the Third Option proposal goes through, it goes through." His voice was quiet, distant and detached. America's grip on his shirt collar tightened.

"You can't do this, you can't."

_If you don't depend on me, if you no longer need me..._

Canada's eyes were unusually bright; his wavy blond hair golden and shining against the dark striped wallpaper.

"You don't own me, America."

He was crying now, he knew it. Salty tears dripped off his angular chin onto the lapel of his brother's black suit jacket.

"Is this about Cuba and the Cold war? Or did this start even before then? Maybe..., maybe you're still bitter about the whole Manifest Destiny business? That's in the past, it really is. And, and War Plan Red is just a document in the archive with the war long over and all, and I know you're not going to employ Defence Scheme No. 1 against me. There's really no good reason for this to happen, right?"

He knew one of the main causes was the raise in tariffs on imports and despite his best efforts at lying to himself, he knew he was just avoiding the truth in a futile hope that the real reason was something else entirely. In his haste, he had revealed the nature of the old war plan that was not yet declassified by his country though at the moment, this divulgence of sensitive information was trivial.

His frantically compiled questions were met with a dead silence that gripped his own throat painfully.

Some days America wished that Manifest Destiny came through as it had intended. It was so hard to continually bridge the gap between the two nations, to rekindle decades upon decades of friendship and trust. It was even more painful when all that effort washed away in a flood of current events.

Some nights America dreamed it had happened and they became one again, sharing their burdens, pains, and most importantly, their happiness. They would be isolated from the other world across the oceans, spending all their time together like in the simpler olden days. If someone tried to tear them apart again, they would oppose the enemy forces as one nation. He dreamed they lived content while the world moved on without them and they without regret on their choice.

Some mornings America woke up from these dreams of hypothetical happiness to a cold empty room, miles south from the border. The servant boy would spend the rest of the morning clearing the bedroom of feathers and shredded cloth.

A cold hand reached up and grabbed one of his wrists.

"You know as well as I do that as a nation we need to diversify our trade of goods. Do you deny that?"

He couldn't lie when his eyes met with Canada's, so he said nothing and waited.

_Please...don't do this..._

"This isn't your fault, America," Canada said in that quiet voice of his, always quiet, almost regretful. "It's not you, it's me." It's his fault for becoming so dependent on trade with the other country.

_It's alright to depend on me. I _want_ you to depend on me. Don't make this go away._

"Matthew-" It had been ages since he called him by that name. Caught up in international affairs, they exchanged conversation mostly in professional settings. The hand gripping his, tightened until it hurt to hold on although he had since slackened his hold. It felt like the hand was directly squeezing his throbbing heart.

"No."

_Please don't push me away_.

"It's not Matthew."

_Please, please, please-_

"It's Canada."

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_Canada is the only country in the world that knows how to live without an identity._ – Herbert Marshall McLuhan

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There was a specific routine to the irregularly scheduled world meetings that most nations as well as most common people failed to see. What they saw were representatives arriving in the morning or the day before congregating in the conference room to propose operations or agreements already discussed in private, argue some, pause for a lunch break, argue some more, and then leave for dinner and a night of diplomatic revelry in the bar to improve international relationships.

As the tea trolley made its round during the second part of the meeting, the nations generally leaned back into their chairs more casually from boredom as the latter half of the agenda was usually the most mundane and rarely went anywhere.

The trolley lady rolled past, jumping from Australia to England without missing a beat. As it came by, Canada swiped a cup off the rack unperturbed and poured himself some hot water as she showed the Englishman the new teabags they recently purchased. Carefully avoiding contact with the moving arms, he leaned back and reached into the compartment, pulling out one of the packets from the box two down and one right from the far left corner.

When the lady added sugar to the teacup, Canada added milk to his. When she poured in the milk, he lifted the lid to the sugar bowl and filched two cubes. This was done in perfect unison though mostly on the efforts of only one of the two. The trolley then moved on without incident.

On the podium, Spain gave his report and everyone listened as politely as they could with the least amount of interest they could get away with. No one enjoyed being the one who read the annual report nor did anyone like being the ones listening.

The hours whittled away and finally to general applause, they disbanded. The nations would file out of the room in singles, pairs, trios, and so on until only one nation, Canada, was left. He placed his polar bear on the floor, walked over, and with a regretful smile, kicked the recorder's briefcase under the table.

While the young man searched for his missing possession in distress, Canada took the vacated seat and appended his unheard statements onto the end of the sheet in practiced shorthand. Whispering an apology, he strode back to his seat, snapped his own briefcase closed, and left the room with his bear trailing behind him asking for food and whatnot.

Several minutes later when the search was over and the desired object was recovered, the recorder, who briefly contemplated ghosts in the conference room, would be intercepted around the corner by a hamburger-munching America asking for a copy of the meeting minutes.

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_Americans are benevolently ignorant about Canada, while Canadians are malevolently well-informed about the United States._ – J. Bartlet Brebner

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"-and you always drag me into your _grand_ schemes that almost always goes wrong somewhere along the way-"

The usually straight-backed and confident figure was hunched over, wincing at each biting remark. His weak protests were cut off before they reached fruition, steadily growing infrequent as time passed by.

"-completely avoidable if you just listened for a moment instead of barrelling in-"

Like a corner mouse, he pressed back against the wall behind him, slightly cowering but not even thinking of escape.

"-of course, _nobody_ would mind America sticking his nose into their business, he was a _hero_ after all, best reason in the world-"

Canada was in his element, setting free a barrage of unrealized complaints that had accumulated in his head over the years. It was almost a ritual between the two nations.

Eventually they'd start to argue when no one was around to interrupt and the whole situation would turn one-sided in a heartbeat. The Northern country would grumble about this and that and his Southern neighbour would go silent and take in the verbal abuse to the point of tears until someone came along and stopped them.

"-really stupid idea, and don't even get me started on-"

A glance at America's face showed that he was already on the verge of crying. This induced a perverse pleasure in Canada.

_That's right. Cry. It's your turn to bawl your eyes out from the hurt. Cry, do it_.

Each subsequent insult became less and less passive and more and more specific.

_Cry, cry, cry, cry._

A single tear fell, followed by another, then another, and another, and another.

And with each one, with each syllable he uttered, like sharp knives it stung Canada's aching heart.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Oh, Matthew, you're turning into such a vindictive jerk. Also, there's an awful lot of crying in this fic, really. Lots and lots of historical notes ahead. Tread carefully in case of inaccuracy. I'm no history buff, don't take my word for it.

Section 1: The quote (actually the article it came from) really makes me want to elaborate on it in full but I don't think it'll fit into canon context very well, especially not with this fic. Anyways, this section refers to the end of the **First World War** during the compiling of the **Treaty of Versailles**. The British Dominions (India was in the middle of a 'revolution' sort of thing but gave their support) contested for the right to send their own delegations and eventually got to sign the Treaty under the British Empire. The United States did object to their signing because it would've been like the BE got 6 votes. The **League of Nations** was replaced by the United Nations at the end of the Second World War.

Section 2: The quote by President Nixon refers to the end of Canada and the United States' special relationship when tariffs on Canadian imports were raised by 10% (thus on par with all other foreign countries). This part is set some time in 1972. The **Third Option Policy** was a proposal during Prime Minister Trudeau's time in office to diversify Canada's trade and reduce trade and cultural relations between Canada and the U.S. This was never passed in parliament given the change in office. **War Plan Red** was an American military strategy created in the mid 1920s against the Great Britain and was withdrawn after the start of the Second World War. The plan outlined an invasion of Canada (and of the other major dominions but mainly Canada for its closer proximity). The title refers to the colour coding of the separate parts of Great Britain (e.g. Canada was coded 'crimson'). The **Defence Scheme No.1** was developed against a U.S. invasion after they received evidence of War Plan Red. **Manifest Destiny** was, in brief, the belief that America destined to annex everybody/place on the continent. I won't even get started on the Cold War, you probably know all about that one.

Section 3 & 4: Just builds on normal stuff that happens. The second is pretty much another incident of the passive-aggressive verbal abuse episode in the canon series.

**Thanks for reading! Your reviews were appreciated greatly.**


	4. Part 4

Title: Between You and Me

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.

_A/Ns_: First, I apologize for the extreme...shortness of this section. The last part (yes, there's only one more after this one) needs a lot of revising after the first run-through and school hasn't been kind with my free time. Anyways, I'll try to have that one ready for upload as soon as possible. Without further ado, carry on.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_We must face the fact that the United States is neither omnipotent nor omniscient; that we are only 6 percent of the world's population; that we cannot impose our will upon the other 94 percent of mankind; that we cannot right every wrong or reverse every adversity; and that therefore there cannot be an American solution to all world problems._ – John F. Kennedy

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Here you are, America," the Japanese man said, placing cardboard package in front of the superpower. With the eagerness of a child during Christmas, America tore off the top and delved his fingers into the Styrofoam insulators.

Within a few seconds, a slim sleek black laptop sat on his cluttered office desk, a masterpiece of cutting edge technology. It even glinted intelligently.

Flipping the screen up, America turned the machine on and delighted in the almost inaudible whir of the start-up and the exhaust fan. A loading bar appeared on the black screen along with a familiar four coloured logo.

"Looks great, Japan. I'm sure it will sale well." Politely rejecting the praise, Japan inclined his head in acknowledgment of his kind words and stood at the side quietly as the desktop loaded and America began to fiddle with the preset programs with a sweep of his finger.

"This is awesome, man, totally smooth, just the right sensitivity, and quiet as a kitten," he said as he opened the most recent word processor and played with the drawing tool function. A strange blob creature began to take shape.

"That is good news, I was hoping to get a second opinion. Our firm was aiming for a more business-oriented market and with the increasing need to travel long distances, we took into consideration the durability of casing and overall weight."

"Yeah?" he said absentmindedly, adding a second blob next to the first which had an odd resemblance to its creator.

"It would be an honour if you decide to keep this prototype. Might I trouble you with passing this one onto Canada? I received an urgent call and no longer have the time to arrange a visit to Ottawa before my flight back home."

At the sound of his neighbour's title, he accidentally drew a straight line between the two blobs. He blinked at the symbolism and smiled grimly. A dark chuckle attempted to spill over his lips. Sensing a change in the atmosphere, Japan clasped his hands together apologetically.

"I am sorry, please don't take my request to heart, I'll see if I can-"

America laughed, a bit more bitterly than he intended. He added a second line.

"No, it's alright. I'll do it. It's no trouble at all, really." The Asian nation shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot to the clicks of laptop.

"Excuse me for being intrusive. If I may ask...did you have another fall out with Canada?" he asked this with sympathy. America added another line. And another.

"Yeah, you could say that." Another line joined the rest. They continued to pile up like stacked tally marks, each one standing for a past argument, a previous mistake, a former dispute, a prior disagreement. Eventually it went beyond the capacity of his mental thesaurus but the lines continued to add up long afterwards.

"That is...rather unfortunate," Japan said at last. The air in the dimly lit room thickened. "I hope you resolve your differences soon."

"Me too..." Without thinking, his left hand moved over to the keyboard and pressed two keys in unison.

A line vanished.

He sat there almost astonished at what he had done. And then he did it again.

Another gone.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until there were no more lines between the two drawings.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he whispered, astonished face illuminated by the bright screen. "Control-Z. The simple press of two keys and sooner or later it all returns to normal. Erases the bad, the unwanted, bang, just like that."

Japan was at a loss for words. It disheartened him that his friend seemed even more depressed than before. Although he wished dearly to cheer him up, he also knew this was dangerous territory he was treading and may not be at all welcome to further prying. He chose his next words tentatively, wrestling with conflicting feelings.

"Yes...it certainly is."

Later that day, with the ctrl and z keys well broken in, a tired America stretched, scratched his head, and rang his secretary to tell her that he will be having lunch out. Before locking up, he glanced longingly at the two drawings and closed the word document without saving.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Canada and the United States have reached the point where we can no longer think of each other as foreign countries._ – Harry S. Truman

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It was nights like these that they treasured the most; when both of them shed their respect titles and became just another citizen.

No Canada, no United States. Just Matthew and Alfred.

They were a familiar sight to the patrons of the suburban supermarket. The elder pushed the banged-up cart with one rebellious wheel while the younger double-checked a long grocery list they never end up using. As they passed down each aisle, they methodically picked out their purchases and deposited them into the cart.

Alfred would pick out the bags of chips and boxes of microwaveable popcorn. Matthew would be in charge of the 2-litre cola and preferred liquor. As they rattled through the meat section, the Canadian sorted through the packaged hamburger meat for the best deal and the American loaded the half-full cart with napkins and paper towels as they rolled past the shelves of plastic disposable dining utensils.

It was times like these that Matthew treasured the most; when they moved in unison, teasing each other but never too much. It was like a dance that neither of them prepared for or even knew the steps to but managed still to execute it with precision, catching the other's mistakes and lending a hand when needed. One of them might forget something and the other would remember instantly; an inexplicable phenomenon, this almost telepathic connection. They also never shopped for themselves but instead for each other. That was just how it worked and nothing could ever really explain it.

At the checkout, both siblings pulled out their credit cards at the same time, resulting in a brief argument about who would pay the bill. Their good-natured bickering continued well after the automatic doors slid shut behind them. Old ladies who lingered about the establishment cooed about how nice it was to see young people getting along with each other at their age.

It didn't matter who owned the car. One of them loaded the trunk with the bags while the other started up the engine. Whoever won the ritual coin toss got the wheel. Following that they drove home amicably while the loser turned the radio to a station they knew the other despised, grinning as the volume was set to maximum.

Pulling up the driveway, whoever loaded the trunk opened the door while the other threw them the house key and grabbed more grocery bags than he was capable of carrying. A whole lot of stumbling, cursing, and laughing later, somehow the groceries made it to kitchen counter relatively intact and edible. Alternately, they prepared the snacks, pushed the sofa closer to the television set, and changed it to the appropriate channel.

It was moments like these that Alfred treasured the most; when they sat quietly together on the couch watching the pre-game commercials and commentary. He'd feel his brother lean his head of his shoulder, their sides flush against each other, blurring their borders. Even the loud volume issuing from the surround sound system fell away from their reality for a moment; the only things that could be heard were the soft inhales and exhales of their breathing, the gentle thud-thud of their hearts. He would push away the ache of what could have been and focused on sinking into the contentment of the present and the warm body next to him. He'd always get the urge, but never had the courage, to reach over a scant half-inch and twine their fingers together.

It was an illusion of their days together as one, when there was no need for words, just feelings sufficed.

It was an illusion of an unattainable peace in the modern world they lived in, a small piece of fixed paradise in the turbulent chaos of the real world.

It was an illusion, shattered, when the uniformed players stepped on the ice, when the puck was dropped, when as one with the spectators, the two of them rose from their seats joining in the cheers and the jeers, on opposing sides, for the rest of the night.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Sometimes, sports just make me so sad. The animosity gets to me even if I do enjoy the game once in a while and will support my team. If you wanted to know, it's perfectly possible to draw on Microsoft Word. I actually drew the same picture that Alfred drew in this story just to see if it would work. I wouldn't recommend it for the serious artist though (unless you thrive on stuff like that, different strokes for different folks). I hope Japan wasn't too...out of character here. I think I wrote him a little too...antsy. I don't know the word for it but hopefully it wasn't jarring.

There weren't really any historical references in these last sections so any that do occur are purely coincidental.

**Thank you for reading!**


	5. Part 5

Title: Between You and Me

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.

**Important Note:** I would like to clarify that instances of the term North America specifically refers to Canada and the United States as one entity (in a way, Anglo-America although that's not entirely correct). I've appended this note onto the first chapter.

_A/Ns_: And here's the finale. I don't think I wrote it out quite right but I hope it's not that bad. Also, this fic has way too much crying in it. Read on!

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_America is a nation with many flaws, but hopes so vast only the cowardly would refuse to acknowledge them._ – James Michener

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"No more beating around the bush, Mattie. Just give me a straight answer already," said America, pinching the bridge of his nose. Presently, they were perched on the edge of the superpower's hotel room bed. They had arrived together by plane earlier that morning, sat through the tedious but short world meeting, and retired to America's room after a brief, unsatisfying dinner.

Canada wrung his hands apprehensively, unable to look his brother in the face. He had been trying to avoid this conversation for months now and it looked like he wasn't going to get off easy this time. Time, yes, time was running out. He felt his chest tighten.

"If...if I do,' he began deliberately, 'will you promise me one thing?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I didn't tell you what it is yet."

"So? I'd do anything for you." The effortless way he said those words, and meant them, struck chord in him and set his chest a-fluttering. The weary smile directed at him caused his cheeks to redden.

_This has to stop. Really, what am I thinking?_

"Besides, you'd never hurt me intentionally," he chuckled, leaning against him in evident weariness. Canada grimaced at the remark, straightening a little to accommodate the burden of the body resting against him.

_But I have. You and I both know this. Quit making me out to be nicer than I am._

"So what's your request, Matt?"

He looked up finally, observing America's tired face with sad violet eyes. The way his brother's body slouched screamed of fatigue; the heavy-lidded blue eyes spoke of long nights with his laptop. His short blond hair was messy, results of constantly being run through by a tense hand in frustration. He had not taken the time to change into a fresh set of clothes; the shirt buttons were still done up in the wrong order. Behind him, the work desk was buried under the heaps upon heaps of paperwork, some strewn over the floor from the overload; the small portable computer's screen was bright with text and incoming emails.

_You're always trying to do so much. Too much._

He placed his hand over Alfred's and squeezed comfortingly.

"Don't do this all on your own. You can depend on other people too." _You can depend on me._

Swallowing hard, he waited for America's reply, losing himself in his self-doubt.

_But I don't think that's enough. Not even close._

Alfred took his hand in both of his, startling him out of his thoughts. He gazed imploringly into his younger brother's eyes and spoke firmly.

"When it comes to it, I want the 'other people' to be you."

_No. No, not 'when', 'if', it should be 'If'. But even then it would be too late anyways._

The tears rolled down his cheeks as he allowed Alfred to hold him and comfort him with his presence.

"You didn't, you didn't promise..." he choked through the sobs and clutching onto the starched fabric. A large hand stroked his hair in a soothing manner.

"Hey, you've been avoiding my question. Aren't I allowed to avoid this promise for a while too?" his voice was soft and kind, reassuringly teasing. "Come on, Mattie, play fair. I didn't say no after all. It's your turn now, tell me. Whatever you say, I'll accept it."

Matthew leaned in to the welcome embrace, relaxing under the gentle petting and their companionable silence.

_I can't lose all this. I won't let myself let you go._

"I..." He tried to answer but the words got caught in his emotion-constricted throat. The steady hands held him firm and understanding, a pillar of strength that he didn't deserve.

_But I'm a coward, a hypocrite. I don't want to lose myself by accepting you. But I also don't want to lose you by accepting only me. But I'm running out of time. _You're_ running out of time, yet I…_

"And whatever you do, don't give me a pity answer, Mattie. Only say what you really truly believe. That's all I can ask of you. I don't want you to lie to yourself."

_And if what I say hurts you? When a lie would make us both feel better? You're such a jerk, Alfred. You're forcing me to choose the option that makes us both worse off. Just because you think it's the correct answer._

_Just because you don't want to drag me down with you when..., _if _the time comes._

Admitting it as a future certainty set the tears flowing again. How many times has he cried in the past week? How many times has he broken down, despairing in his uselessness? There had to be something he could do. Anything would do.

"I...I-I'm sorry," he cried. He couldn't say it. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

"Shh, it's not your fault. Don't worry, come on, don't cry."

"I'm s-sorry...."

They held onto each other until they were both calm and Matthew had exhausted his tears. His voice was thick when he next spoke.

"...the public conference is tomorrow."

"I know."

"You'll be vulnerable. Dangerous people could get in-"

"My guys will take care of it. They've got it under control."

"But what if-"

"Matthew." Blue eyes stared into his adamantly. "I'll be fine."

_No, you won't._

"This is just a formality. I can't hide from my people for any longer."

_You can. But, you just have to play the hero, don't you?_

"There will always be a risk. It's part of politics."

_Don't tell me it's worth it. Don't say 'I'm willing to take that risk'._

"...whatever happens will happen regardless. I don't have a choice in this matter."

_Liar._

"Please believe in me? Please? Stay with me tonight."

He nodded. It was all he could do.

They laid there under the duvet in the darkness of early morning, close together although the double mattress gave adequate room for the two of them to sleep comfortably.

America wasn't asleep. He couldn't sleep no matter how much his aching body protested for rest. If he closed his eyes and drifted away, he would not be able to savour this moment for as long as possible. Dreams always had a shortening effect and with his havoc-wrecked mind, a night terror was more than likely to surface.

A shaft of moonlight pierced the black, illuminating a cold white slice of plaster ceiling. He observed it in blurry fascination.

"You asleep, Matt?"

No response.

"I've thought about it a lot and I guess I haven't actually told you my reasons yet. Hear me out, will you?"

Still nothing.

"When we were younger, younger than now anyways, I was always ranting and raving about returning to the old, to the way we began."

He pulled the duvet a little higher over their shoulders.

"I still miss those times. I really do. I was serious about it back then. And I still am."

Turning over, he squinted at his brother, watching the hypnotic rise and fall of his torso.

"But I've given up on that. I know now that it's impossible."

The hand next to his twitched.

"I don't want us to become the old North America. I want us to be the new North America, both Canada and the United States; the countries we are now, the ones that grew with us and shaped us. It's laughable, yeah, but we can make it work. We're part of what they call the New World, right? Let's make that happen, a new world."

The only reply was a soft exhale.

They woke up the next morning to the golden light of the rising sun through the parted curtains. Actually, Canada had risen even earlier than that, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching his brother doze on. Even in sleep, he looked burned out.

Finally the sunlight getting the better of him, Alfred groaned, rolled over, and burrowed deeper into the rumpled sheets. He blinked groggily at the digital clock and tried to sit up only to be pushed back down.

"Rest for a little longer, no buts," his brother insisted in his usual quiet voice, tucking him back in. "I'll get you some breakfast. Coffee?"

"Make it black, I need something to keep me awake," said the disgruntled lump in the bed. Canada pressed a fleeting kiss to his forehead and grabbed the leather wallet off the side table.

After landing in a private airport in Washington D.C., he was immediately chauffeured to the conference building and escorted through the back entrance crushed in the middle of an eight person bodyguard ring.

The scene was of sheer pandemonium. Everyone was shouting instructions, directions, complaints, and reprimands in every direction. The floor was so thick with hastily-lain electrical wires it was difficult not to trip.

"Here is your headset, sir," a tall, clean-cut man in typical Secret Service attire said, pushing the tiny communications device into the palm of his hand. "We've got you covered, but just in case, you do remember the emergency procedures?"

"Of course, who do you think you're talking to?"

"Good, break a leg out there." The man winked in a casual, reassuring manner but it did nothing to still his nerves. His clammy fingers wrinkled the manila envelope clutched at his side, heart thudding.

A stern-faced woman in a tidy two-piece suit came up from behind him and smoothed down his collar, tucked loose strands of hair out of the way, muttering urgently, "You're on in ten, sir," and pointed him towards the side door before rushing away.

Taking deep breaths, he wound his way through the mass of electricians, building security, and a whole collection of other workers before stopping just before the door frame.

Sighing deeply, he plunged into the packed room filled with a sea of eager reporters and was immediately swamped with flashes of camera light. Without wasting any time, he climbed onto the stage and stood behind the podium, affixing his gaze to the back wall while his jittery hands fumbled for his written speech. Someone at the foot of the stage yelled for everyone to be quiet. A restless hush fell upon the crowd like an invisible blanket.

It lasted all but three minutes into his opening speech before he was bombarded by questions.

"_Sir_, what do you intend to-"

"-recent surveys show that the majority of American citizens are opposed to-"

"-would like to know the reason behind-"

Several black suited men roared for the crowd to remain calm and state their questions in an orderly fashion. Several reporters had to be restrained physically and a few were even removed from the conference room until they settled down enough for further questioning. A young women with bright eyes and a breathless expression stood up, compact recorder in hand.

"Sir, what is your personal opinion on the matter?"

"I-"

There was a gunshot and Canada felt the bullet bite into his chest. As he fell backwards, a collective gasp rose from the crowd.

_I'm so selfish._

Footsteps thundered onto the stage, lights were flashing everywhere, some people were screaming, but it was all congealing into one big haze.

_I'm so selfish that I'd rather leave you to suffer because I'm too afraid to be alone._

Somebody was slapping his face, trying to rouse him.

"-Jones, Mr. Jones? Please respond. Give any response. Mr. Jones!"

Hands pulled his bloodstained shirt away to inspect the bleeding wound. It was useless. The pain bled out of his body, soaking into the carpeting.

Canada gazed up at the ceiling, obscured by those who hovered over him, and was amazed to find a skylight there. Beyond the glass was an expanse of pure blue, free of clouds.

He smiled.

"...Alfred..." His words were lost in the clamour around him, eyelids growing heavy.

"My answer is yes, yes…I do too."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Who didn't see that coming? Even I saw it coming before I even thought of it, that's how predictable it was. Not says it like a Servant of Evil homage. And in case you don't know, Matthew drugged the coffee. What the question was I'll leave up to your interpretation. This ending was kind of corny and unoriginal but it wouldn't stop bothering me so I gave it some leeway and let it write itself.

**Thank you very much for reading all the way to end! And many thanks to those who gave their support.**


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